Packard Goose (Act III, Scene Sixteen)

Joe:
(clutching the hood ornament of an ancient car)
Maybe you thought I was the Packard Goose
Or the Ronald
MacDonald of the
nouveau-abstruse
Well fuck all them
people, I don’t
need no excuse
For being what I am
Do you hear me, then?
All them rock ‘n’ roll writers is the worst kind of sleaze
Selling punk like
some new kind of
English disease
Is that the wave
of the future?
Aw, spare me please!
Oh no, you gotta go
Who do you write for?
I wanna know
I believe you is the government’s whore
And keeping peoples dumb is where you’re coming from
And keeping peoples dumb is where you’re coming from
Fuck all them writers with the pen in
their hand
I will be more
specific so they
might understand
They can all
kiss my ass
But because it’s
so grand
They best just
stay away
Hey, hey, hey
Hey, Joe, who
did you blow?
Moe pushed
the button boy
And you went
to the show
Better suck a little harder or the shekels won’t flow
And I don’t mean
your thumb
So on your knees
you bum
Just tell yourself
it’s yum
And suck it till
you’re numb
Journalism’s
kinda scary
And of it
we should be wary
Wonder what became
of Mary?
 
And no sooner has he wondered, a vision of Mary appears to him,  delivering a little lecture . . .
Voice Of Mary’s Vision:
Hi! It’s me . . .
the girl from the bus . . .
Remember?
The last tour?
Well . . .
Information is
not knowledge
Knowledge is
not wisdom
Wisdom is not truth
Truth is not beauty
Beauty is not love
Love is not music
Music is THE BEST . . .
Wisdom is the domain of the Wis
(which is extinct).
Beauty is a French phonetic corruption
Of a short cloth
neck ornament
Currently in
resurgence . . .
 
And no sooner has she spoken (which is awkward and probably incorrect but what the fuck), enormous flabby short cloth neck ornaments obscure the horizon in a multitude, beating their ugly wings and working their hidden chrome snap attachments as they re-surge in the direction of the White Zone seeking snack material near the Utensil Shrines of Greater America . . .
 
Joe:
If you’re in the
audience and like
what we do
Well, we want you
to know that we
like you all too
But as for the
sucker who will
write the review
If his mind
is prehensile
He’ll put down
his pencil
And have
himself a squat
On the Cosmic Utensil
Give it all you got
On the Cosmic Utensil
Sit ‘n’ spin until you rot
On the Cosmic Utensil
He really needs
to squat
On the Cosmic Utensil
Now that I got that over with
I’ll just play my
imaginary guitar again
Hey . . .
sounds real good!
Hey...get down, me...
Boy, what an
imagination!
Love myself better than I love myself . . .
I think . . .
What tone!
Sounds like an
Elegant Gypsy!
What is that?
Musk?
Its hip!